


Offset

by lanyrainicorn



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Animal Shelter AU, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyrainicorn/pseuds/lanyrainicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt is perfect. He’s a good person, an even better friend, a model employee and volunteer. He’s got his life together and things always work out in his favor. Or at least that's how it appears to everyone on the outside.</p><p>Jean Kirschtein is considerably less perfect. He’s a delinquent, has a troubled past, and he’s headed for an even more troubled future if he doesn’t get his act together. But Jean is hiding a secret that could hold the answer to his problems, if only he were brave enough to tell.</p><p>When an obligation brings the two together, will their meeting change Jean for the better, or Marco for the worse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offset

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Jeanmarco fic, as well as my first (hopefully) long, (hopefully) multi-chapter fic. I hope I do them justice and make this entertaining.
> 
> This story is likely to be full of easter eggs, headcanons, and references to other fics I've read, whether intentional or not, so just know that anything I include that might come from another story is an homage to that story and it's not my intention to steal the idea AT ALL, it's likely that I've just totally accepted it as a headcanon!

Everyone knows that Marco Bodt is the nicest person to ever grace the undeserving Earth with his presence, with a goodness level nestled comfortably between ‘good Samaritan’ and ‘literally Jesus’. It’s simply a universal truth, and something his friends (lovingly) goad him about constantly. Marco’s usual response consists of a roll of his eyes and a genuine smile, sometimes paired with a laugh and a good-natured punch to the shoulder.

If there was ever any doubt left of Marco’s righteousness, it was thoroughly vanquished following a particularly rowdy Saturday-night house party celebrating the end of mid-terms. After Marco spotted a girl – a very drunk and _very underage_ girl – that he recognized from the local high school being hit on by a very sober and very legal guy he recognized from one of his classes, he fulfilled his duty as Saint Marco by swooping in, throwing an arm around her, and guiding her outside under the guise of “overly protective big brother”.

Despite the multiple instances of her trying to unbutton his pants during the drive home, her angry attempts at opening the locked car door, and her flagrant disregard for his floor mats (really, if she’d just _said_ she needed to puke he would’ve pulled over!), he finally coaxed her into telling him her address and she was delivered safely to her thankful – albeit angry and disappointed – parents, who had been waiting up half the night for her to come home. Afterward he decided it would be better to just not go back to the party at all, instead opting to head home and sleep the rest of the night away, seeing as he was scheduled to open the shelter the next morning.

Yes, you heard correctly. As if Saturday’s party incident wasn’t enough of an indicator that Marco is a perfect, flawless, ethereal being, he also volunteers at the local animal shelter, _in addition_ to the hours he spends actually _working_ there, for pay. Let it never be said that he isn’t a selfless, dedicated, productive member of society, because that is the very definition of Marco.

-

So here he is, fiddling with his key in the sticky old lock, bright and early on a Sunday morning when not even the birds are awake yet. After a moment’s turmoil the lock finally clicks, and he shoves the door open with his foot, arms occupied by bags of pet food, treats, and various toys left overnight in the donation box. Trost is a nice little town, and the people are incredibly generous, leaving donations to the shelter nearly every day. It makes Marco glad his mom made him move here when he was in ninth grade, even though he was unsure at first. Of course, being the pleasantly personable human being that he is, Marco had no trouble making friends or getting on the teachers’ good sides.

He makes his way inside, door latching softly behind him as he dumps his armload on the counter, readying himself to begin what he’s sure will be another rewarding day on the job. He sets to work doing all his usual duties, first heading to the back where they keep the animals, where he refills food and water bowls, pats furry heads, coos comforting words to his frightened animal pals, and gets licked more times than he can count. He sweeps the floor, guiding dust and leaves and stray pieces of pet food into a tidy pile, which he scoops into a dust pan and deposits into the trash. He organizes the shelves, stocking all of the previous week’s donated supplies and sorting them by type, then alphabetically. The menial tasks go by quickly, because he’s so used to doing things methodically and making sure everything is perfectly organized; he has long since accepted the fact that his boss, Levi, is an anal-retentive sociopath, so it’s best not to leave anything out of place, lest he face the wrath of Ackerman.

Before he knows it, it’s eight o’clock, and just as he pins his nametag on and steps behind the counter, the little bell over the door jingles, signaling the arrival of two of his coworkers, who also happen to be his two best friends.

“Marcooooo!” is the next thing he hears, the pretty sing-song voice of Sasha echoing as she bursts into the building, muffin in one hand and a huge bottle of orange juice in the other. Connie trails behind her, popping the last bite of a biscuit into his mouth as he yanks on his girlfriend’s ponytail.

“Hey, Connie, Sash. Thanks for coming in on your day off. Sorry again, we’re just so short on volunteers again and it’s a task keeping up with all these guys by myself,” Marco tosses his thumb in the direction of the cages in the back as Connie and Sasha grab their aprons from the rack on the wall.

“It’s no problem, bud. You know we’re always happy to help. Plus we love these stupid fur balls as much as you do, even though Connie doesn’t always wanna admit it.” She playfully pokes her bald boyfriend in the side, eliciting a high pitched squeak of surprise.

The end of the calendar year is rapidly approaching, and with the final quarter comes the shelter’s last open house of the year. Their quarter annual open house is an opportunity for all of the citizens of Trost to gather in the spacious field behind the shelter and have a sort of meet-and-greet with all the animals currently there. For some of them, the last open house of the year is the last chance to find a home, and in turn, their last chance at life. Due to state regulations, any animal that doesn’t get adopted by the end of the calendar year must be euthanized, and no one at the shelter can bear the thought of that, so each year they work their hardest to make the event as big as possible. To say it’s their busiest time of year would be an understatement.

Nevertheless, it’s something Marco has looked forward to every year since he’d joined the team three years ago as a high school senior looking for volunteer credits to put on his college applications. But, being Marco, he instantly fell in love with the animals he helped and eventually joined as a full time, paid worker. Through dedication and hard work (and, again, just by being Marco) he rose to the position of “you’re basically the assistant manager now, brat”, which by all means wasn’t a bad position; it came with all the benefits – keys to the store, the authority to hire, fire, and decide which volunteers to take on, and it earned him an even better name around town. The not-so-great aspects included twice the responsibility for no extra pay, considering the state’s allotted funding for paying the workers (and for the shelter in general) was dangerously low.

This only motivated Marco to work harder, though. Organizing fundraisers, going door to door asking for monetary donations, making appearances at schools and events – you name it, Marco did it, all in the name of helping the animals he loves so dearly.

“Besides,” Connie starts, “you’re one to talk. You’ve been here every day for the past week. I know you hit forty hours like, last Wednesday or some shit.”

Marco hums an agreement before poking his tongue out and adding, “I know, I know. But you know I can’t resist the cute fluffies.”

“You should take some time off, Marco. You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave at this rate. I mean, do you ever actually go have _fun_?” Sasha says, grabbing a bottle of cleaner and a rag from the closet behind her.

“My job _is_ fun, Sash. Can you stand there and tell me that playing fetch with dogs all day isn’t fun? Plus I went to that party on Saturday. That was fun, right?”

“Man, you left at nine pm. Plus I don’t know if rescuing a sloppy sixteen year old then having her puke in my car is really my definition of ‘fun’,” Connie interjects. Marco can’t deny that Connie’s right. Fighting off creepers and giving minors rides home isn’t exactly what one would call a good time. But it was the right thing to do, and that was enough for Marco to be content.

Marco just shrugs and the three fall into a comfortable silence, meandering around one another in a well-practiced dance as they complete their duties for the day.

-

Their rhythm is practiced and they’re the most in-synch team in the shelter’s history, so it’s no surprise when they all glance up at the clock in unison, realizing that it’s well past noon, and more importantly, well past lunchtime.

“Hey, Marco,” Sasha calls as she ducks behind the front counter, retrieving a huge brown paper bag, and there is no doubt in Marco’s mind that it’s filled to the brim with a thousand different things that Connie and Sasha will eat for lunch. They’re both bottomless pits, and Marco swears they eat their weight in junk food every day. He’s surprised when she reaches in and pulls out a crumpled wad of bills instead, chunking them across the counter to Marco. “Lunch is on me today, bud. Why don’t you walk down to the new diner on the corner and treat yo’self? Connie and me ate there last week and oh my _God,_ their Philly cheesesteaks are _to die for._ ”

Marco just laughs, “You think all food is to die for, Sasha.” He suddenly remembers that he didn’t even pack himself a lunch today, but he still hesitates, hand hovering over the crumbled money. “You sure you don’t mind, though?”

“Of course not. We’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.” She flashes her trademark goofy grin, patting the counter gently. He’s unsure, and questions whether it’s actually a good idea to leave Tweedledee and Tweedledum in charge of a business for more than a few seconds.

It takes Sasha a handful of reassurances, and she has to all but shove Marco out the door, but pretty soon he finds himself strolling leisurely down the sidewalk, taking his time to enjoy the weather and admire the pretty wildflowers that sprout through the cracks around him. Downtown Trost is quaint and has all the down home charm one could need, with mom and pop store on every street and its classic architecture. Not to mention it’s an undeniably beautiful fall day, complete with cascading autumn leaves in an array of warm colors and a brisk but comfortable breeze that sashays the ones that have fallen along the sidewalk.

The newly built sandwich shop isn’t far from the shelter. Just a few blocks and away the corner away and Marco’s so caught up in the aesthetic of his picturesque little town that he almost walks by right past it. Big neon letters spell out the name “Sina’s” on the front of the diner and when Marco steps through the double doors and sees how immaculate the interior is, he faintly wonders if Levi works a second job at this place before he remembers that it was just recently constructed.

He wanders over to the counter and takes his time looking over the large menu mounted to the wall until a short blonde in a classic soda jerk hat comes around the wall that separates the kitchen from the register and dining area.

“Oh, hey, Armin! I didn’t know you worked here,” he beams when he recognizes his classmate, whose long golden hair is pulled into a loose ponytail on the back of his head, save for a few wispy flyaways framing his babyish face.

“Hi, Marco! It’s nice to see you outside of group projects and study hall,” he gushes in return, a genuine smile lighting up his sapphire eyes. “You here on your lunch break?”

“Yeah, Sasha insisted on paying for my lunch. Said you guys have some good food here. Honestly I think it was just an excuse to get me out of the shelter. Thing 1 and Thing 2 seem to think I work too much.”

“Well… you do have a habit of working through your lunch breaks. You don’t want to overwork yourself, get sick or something,” Armin says matter-of-factly while Marco deadpans on the other side of the counter.

He groans. “Not you too, man. I take plenty of breaks, I have fun all the time!”

“Escorting a minor home isn’t –”

“That’s what Connie said!” he interrupts, rolling his eyes with good natured grace. “Look, I love helping people. And animals. And sometimes plants! It’s like, my thing, ya know? I like working and it keeps me busy and my mind… ya know, occupied and I’m good with that. I’m fine, you guys just worry too much.”

Armin’s spent enough time with Eren Jaeger to know when to quit, so he relents, just smiles and nod, changing the subject to the diner’s specials of the day.

Marco ends up with a chili dog and a side of cheese fries, along with a bottled Coke, all stacked neatly inside a white paper bag branded with the diner’s logo. As he heads for the door Armin waves goodbye, spouting a catchphrase that makes both of them visibly cringe (“SI-na ya later! ...hey, stop laughing you freckled monster! Yes, I know it’s terrible. We’re still working on it, okay?!”).

When he’s safely crossed the street and back on the sidewalk he checks his phone, but finds nothing but multiple text messages containing various cat memes from both Sasha and Connie. He opens Facebook and scrolls through his feed, just for something to do, making sure to glance up every once in a while to make sure he doesn’t barrel over some innocent bystander. He breathes deeply, inhaling the clean autumn air, making sure to enjoy it before it turns frigid and becomes filled with tiny swirling crystals come winter. He’s lost in his own little world again, absentmindedly thumbing through his newsfeed, thoughts drifting to what he should get his mom and friends and horde of little siblings for Christmas, even though the holiday is still a couple months away.

He rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks when he sees a police car parked directly in front of the shelter. _Crap_ , he thinks, heart halting in his chest. _Crap, crap, crap. I knew I shouldn’t have left those two idiots alone in the shop. Someone probably robbed us, or maybe there was an accident. What if one of them slipped while mopping and – wait there would probably be an ambulance if –_ He doesn’t even remember starting to run, but he suddenly bursts through the door, and is greeted by four pairs of eyes, all trained on him like he’s lost his damn mind.

He meets each pair in turn, then slowly matches them with the face they belong to; chestnut brown, partially hidden behind an identically colored fringe – Sasha. Check. Next, bright hazel, topped by a closely cropped buzz cut; that’d be Connie. Check. At least they’re both alive and neither seems to be injured. They’re just sort of looking at him like he’s grown two heads. Alright.

He looks to the next two eyes – ocean blue globes, set below thick blonde brows and matching locks, neatly parted and gelled carefully into place. He looks the owner up and down – police uniform, badge, gun in holster – and recognizes him as Officer Erwin Smith, Trost’s chief of police. He’s only met him a few times, but he’s got a flawless reputation as a cop who genuinely cares for his town and the people in it. In fact, he’d recently adopted a dog from the shelter, a German Shepherd named Titan, who he said would be trained as a police dog in the future. Why was Officer Smith here now, though?

“Afternoon, officer,” Marco greets as he steps through the door, little bell tinkling above him, and sets his bag of food on the counter. “Is something wrong with Titan?”

“Oh, hello, Marco. Nothing’s wrong, I just came in because I have some official business to take care of.” The cop motions behind him, smiling warmly and it puts Marco both at ease and on edge at the same time. He steps to the side slightly and something clicks in Marco’s mind.

A fourth pair of eyes, narrowed ever so slightly.

The color of caramel, almost golden. They’re bright, like a bolt of lightning in the sky, and flecked with the slightest traces of sparkly amber specks. But beneath them are dark bruise-like crescents, making them look dull and sad.

The possessor of said eyes stuffs his hands into his pockets and Marco surveys him. He’s young, about Marco’s own age, dressed in tight black jeans and a dingy, faded black t-shirt featuring a band Marco’s never heard of. A red knit beanie covers most of his hair, but the tufts that poke out of the front are silvery-blonde – obviously bleached – and he has holes in his earlobes, just big enough to see through. He’s probably about Marco’s height (although much skinnier), but something about the way he holds himself, almost like he’s cowering, makes him seem much smaller in comparison.

Under the right circumstances, he could probably be intimidating, but right now he just seems somber and bored. The boy shifts from foot to foot, those tawny eyes trained intently at the floor, not bothering to hide his annoyance and disinterest in being in… whatever this situation is. 

“Oh?” Marco says, and when the boy’s gaze snaps to his, he tears his away, feeling strangely guilty for even looking in his direction. “Levi’s not here today. Should I call him and tell him to meet you here or…”

“That won’t be necessary, Marco. Levi’s already been notified. I talked to him last week. However, I was hoping I would catch the three of you together, since you’ll be the three working with him the most.”

“Excuse me,” Sasha cuts in. “What do you mean by _working_? And by _him,_ do you mean Jack Skellington behind you?” She nudges Connie and his hand flies to his mouth in a poor attempt to cover his laughter. The blonde sneers at the couple, but Marco notices the barely-perceptible way he cringes at the joke, like he’s used to being made fun of and berated.

The officer emphatically clears his throat and the two straighten up immediately at the sound. “Yes, this young man will be volunteering here for the next few months. This is Sasha, Connie, and Marco,” Smith points to each of the three in turn, then gestures to the miffed boy behind him, “and this is Jean Kirschtein.”

Kirschtein.

Jean Kirschtein.

His name is Jean Kirschtein.

Marco wracks his brain for a moment, trying desperately to recall where he’s heard this name, because he _knows_ he’s heard it _somewhere_ before, he’s positive. It’s so familiar, hidden somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, yet it’s so foreign that he feels he’ll never quite remember the instance that he heard this boy’s name. It’s so close, though… it’s on the tip of his tongue. Officer Smith’s voice interrupts his thinking.

“Jean, tell them why you’re here today.” The boy – Jean… his name is Jean Kirschtein – makes no attempt to speak, so the cop fixes him with an authoritative glare and Marco swears he sees him flinch again.

“Community service. I’m here for community service.” His voice is gravelly, practically hoarse and Marco vaguely wonders if he’s sick. Maybe he has a cold or the flu or a sore throat at the least, maybe that’s why he looks shrunken and grumpy, maybe that’s why he has bags under his eyes. He _is_ pretty pale, now that Marco thinks about it, but maybe that’s how his skin always looks. Like he never goes out in the sun.

Smith clears his throat again – authentically this time – and continues for him, “Jean is here to fulfill his community service obligation to the city of Trost.”

“Obligation? What sort of obligation?” Marco finally finds his words, realizing he needs more clarification on this confusing situation.

“Well, though I'm not permitted to speak at length about his offenses – if Jean feels you should know, I’m sure he’ll tell you – I can say that they’re mostly nonviolent crimes. We’ve set up this arrangement in place of jail time. We’re hoping that the time he spends here, with you all and the animals, will help teach Jean compassion and understanding, as well as respect for others. As I said before, I’ve already spoken with Levi and everything is all worked out. You three just have to show him the ropes and tell him what to do. Show him what it’s like to be a part of a team and to take care of the animals. Hopefully that will give him some insight into how a decent human being works.” Marco definitely sees Jean wince at that last sentence, like the words physically hurt him, and it does seem a little harsh, even speaking about a criminal.

“O-of course, Officer Smith. We’ll do everything we can,” Marco agrees, turning to Connie and Sasha, who silently nod their heads in agreement.

“Great. On that note, I leave him in your capable hands, Marco. I know you can handle whatever he throws at you.” Smith claps Marco on the shoulder and they exchange a smile. He waves a goodbye to Sasha and Connie before he breezes out the door, and they stand in silence until they see the police cruiser pull away from the curb and head down the street.

Before Marco can even open his mouth, Thing 1 and Thing 2 have already descended on the innocent (or not so innocent, according to the Erwin) boy, shooting off a barrage of questions in rapid succession.

“What did you _do_ , man?”

“Did you stab someone? Rape someone?”

“Did you _kill_ somebody? Was it a hit and run, or didja do it in a dark alley, in the middle of the night where no one could see?”

“Was it drugs? Were you smuggling heroin across the border? Like _Breaking Bad?”_

“I think that was cocaine, Sasha,” Marco intervenes.

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, heroin is –” Connie attempts to explain, but his response is cut short.

“Can you two shut up for five seconds and let him breathe?” Marco says suddenly, and with much more bite than he meant to, and his friends shrink back like scolded puppies. “Sorry, sorry, but I just don’t think he deserves the third degree when he’s only been here for five minutes.” Marco holds out his hand to Jean, who just stares at it, face blank and eyes glancing back to the taller boy’s face every few seconds. When he doesn’t shake it, Marco lowers it, nervously wiping his palm on his pants.

“Okay, um, well like Officer Smith said, I’m Marco, and those two are Connie and Sasha, but I sometimes call them Dumb and Dumber.” The tanned boy exchanges smiles with his friends, who’ve since recovered and are smiling right back, but Jean looks thoroughly unimpressed and even more unamused. “Okayyyy, well since you’re here to volunteer, I guess we can put you to actual work. You two,” he points to the couple standing behind the counter, “go let the dogs out back to run around. Make _absolutely sure_ that the gate is latched. I’d rather not have a repeat of last week.” Marco shakes his head as he recalls chasing three of the larger and more rambunctious of the shelter’s canines around Trost for the better part of two hours, some of which turned into a rousing game of doggy hide and seek, much to Marco’s chagrin.

Sasha and Connie shoot their friend a mock salute before ducking out of their aprons and heading toward the back, hands linked.

“Okay, first things first. Let me show you around.” Marco motions for Jean to follow him, and he goes from place to place, showing the other boy where the supply closet is, where the donations go, the animal records, and the back room where the small animals are housed. Trost City Animal Shelter is on the larger side as far as shelters go; it’s big enough that there are always a few extra kennels in case of emergencies and it includes a room entirely dedicated to a veterinary setup in case of emergencies.

Marco guides Jean through slowly, pointing out each animal along the way and telling him each of their names in turn. The other doesn’t speak, only nods occasionally and continues to look absolutely indifferent. “And out back is where we keep the dogs.” Marco shoves the heavy back door and it swings open with a squeal as the two wonder out into the shelter’s huge backyard. “We keep the large dogs separated from the small dogs – see that partition? It blocks their view of each other. And we keep them outside so that they’re separated from the cats, because cats are usually skittish anyway, and sometimes they have anxiety from abuse or neglect that they suffer before they come into the shelter and tend to freak out at loud noises like barking and stuff like that. So yeah, we keep the large dogs’ food in those bins over there, and they’re waterproof so make sure you close them tight whenever you feed the dogs ‘cause we don’t want it getting wet if it rains.” He notices the presence beside him is gone, and glances back to see Jean standing very still and staring at the ground, mouth in a tight line. “You, uh, you getting everything?” Marco asks.

The blonde doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at the same spot in the grass, eyes wide, like a snake is going to slither out and bite him.

“Jean?” Marco demands a little more forcefully, taking a step toward him. He jumps a little when he notices the dark haired boy moving and rips his gaze from the ground to look back at Marco. When their eyes meet – caramel on coffee – Marco can nearly feel the raw electricity that travels between them. Jean looks away just as quickly, simply nodding more forcefully than is necessary.

The two head back inside, and Marco instructs him to clean the litterboxes, apologizing for assigning such a “shitty job” as his first task. When Jean just looks at him with the same blank expression he’s held all day, Marco resigns himself to give up his attempts at making jokes, feeling pretty confident that this strange person doesn’t even know how to smile, let alone laugh. He explains the easy procedure quickly and after arming Jean with a scooper, gloves, and a trash bag, Marco heads back to the front to eat his long forgotten and inevitably cold lunch.

Sasha and Connie join him a while later, looking shiny with sweat and panting like the dogs they were just playing with.

“Sooooo,” Sasha begins, peeking around to make sure he’s not within earshot or viewing distance, “what do you guys think?”

“I bet he’s a serial killer,” Connie immediately pipes.

Marco rolls his eyes at that. “Guys, come on, give him a break. Whatever he did can’t be _that_ bad. Anyway, I think he’d be in _prison_ if he was a serial killer. Plus Erwin said his crimes were nonviolent. Pretty sure murder counts as violent.”

“I distinctly remember him saying "mostly" nonviolent. But in that case, maybe it _was_ heroin."

“Cocaine, Sash,” her small boyfriend corrects, but nods in agreement nonetheless.

“What is the matter with you two?” Marco says suddenly. “I never pegged you two as the type to judge someone based on such little information. I thought you guys were better than that.” Sasha looks down shamefully, knowing that Marco is right even though she doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“But he’s weird, man,” Connie argues. “He’s dressed like a punk, with those gauges or whatever they’re called,” he gestures toward his ears, “and he’s barely said a word the whole time he’s been here, and the only reason he did was because Erwin probably would’ve kicked his ass if he hadn’t. He’s just weird, dude.”

“I bet you thought the same thing about me when you first met me. You know how I was in high school. I was shy and quiet, I had braces and glasses. I sat in the back of the class and drew cats all the time. I collected _stamps_ , for God’s sake. I was the definition of _weird._ But you two gave me a chance and now we’re best friends. Maybe all this guy needs is a friend or something, maybe he’s just quiet and lonely. I… I know what that’s like. Just… all I’m asking is that you two give this guy a chance. Make an effort. For me.” And with that speech, in true Marco style, he’s convinced his friends that maybe Jean isn’t as bad as he seems. They nod their affirmations and Marco smiles, proud of them for at least _trying_. “You two can go ahead and go if you want. I’ve just gotta lock up and I’ll be heading out for the night.”

They each come around the counter and hug Marco, muttering apologies and both receiving pats on the head for acknowledging that they judged without good reason. As soon as the short boy and his bouncy girlfriend are out the door, Marco turns around to call for Jean, but doesn’t get the chance, because the blonde is already rounding the corner, the trash bag in his hand tied at the top.

“I’m done,” he says in that same husky voice, holding the bag out for Marco to take.

“Just drop that in the can outside. The shelter closes at five every afternoon, and we open at eight, just so you know. I’ve just gotta double check everything here and lock up before I head out.” He props on his elbow on the counter, resting his head in his hand. “You can go ahead and leave.” This time the other boy doesn’t even nod, he just heads for the door and makes to pull it open.

Jean hesitates, hand resting on the handle, and Marco stares, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t have to, though, because it’s Jean who speaks.

“It’s meth, by the way.”

Marco’s chest tightens. What? Meth? Is that what he got in trouble for? Did he get caught with it, or was he dealing it, or was he smuggling it over the Mexican border? Wait, no, they don’t even live near Mexico.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Breaking Bad._ It’s crystal meth, ya know, methamphetamine. That’s what Walt makes. Not cocaine or heroin.” Marco’s too stunned to say anything. Too stunned at the fact that he actually talked to him. Too stunned at the definite, obvious smile plastered across Jean’s face. It looks good on him. He looks more awake, more alive. Happier. “Oh, and by the way. Your jokes are terrible.”

Before Marco can retort, Jean’s already opened the door and stepped out into the crisp October evening, the little bell tinkling above him.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated, as well as corrections regarding all the typos I've inevitably made.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://lanyrainicorn.tumblr.com) where I post about anime and manga and stuff.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed chapter one!


End file.
